The Trouble With Heroes' Journeys
by Mister Buch
Summary: Short vignettes from (my recent playthroughs of) Origins, Awakening, '2' and Inquisition. The trouble with heroes' journeys is living after they're done.
1. The Warden

Dragon Age: The Trouble With Heroes' Journeys

* * *

**The Warden**

* * *

Alistair comes to meet me back by the fire. He gives me a silly face, blowing air out his lips and widening his eyes, acknowledging that he's coming back from the privy. It's not necessary. I have pissed outside before. So has he, many times, in the many camps we have made on our journey. He remains a very strange human.

He indulges in his little exaggerated groan while he bends down to sit and then plants his shiny knight's boots a few feet from mine. I nod and smile without thinking.

I think we've both noticed it, by now: the way the others let Alistair and I sit here by the fire, while they all take their places a little while away, just out of earshot. I know Wynne gets cold, for one. Perhaps it is because of his rank among the nobility and my position as head of the group that we are given this privilege? Or not. In any case, it's our space now.

We're a faintly ridiculous sight. To me, everything in human-occupied lands looks strange, but this must look silly even to the others. A shem Prince and an outlaw wilder sat down in the mud together wearing matching suits of armour, chatting away, sharing food and drink, arguing about battle plans. I had been trying to tie my dirty, blackened hair up into a tail without it itching me to death, but now I just give up and let it lay loose over my ears.

"Mahariel," he says. He uses my last name when he's bored.

"Your highness," I reply, and he laughs. I'm not sure if I wanted him to or not. I tell him, "You had better get used to hearing that," and he shoos me.

After half a minute's thought, he rolls his eyes. "You sound like Loghain badgering Cailan. Or my father, I suppose. Or anyone, really. I think the wind stuck one day while he has telling somebody off."

"Is he a subject for jokes?"

"Oh, pardon me. Something reminded me of the old war stories, you know? King Maric and Loghain, hiding from the Orlesian armies, fighting impossible odds together to liberate their homeland! Actually that's rather eerie, isn't it?"

I wonder if Maric looked like his son. I wonder if he joked. "They would make fine role-models," I say. "They won." A thought comes over me. Once again I realise how little I know about flat-ear history. I ask him, "How did they win it?"

"Oh well, they were careful. And brilliant, and heroic and blessed by Andraste and all that stuff. Let me see, they enlisted the help of dwarves by fighting in the Deep Roads. They won an important victory at Gwaren, I know that. And they worked together, you know. It was the two of them, all the way. Maric was the symbol of hope, the lost heir, and Loghain had the brains and the determination and, uh."

Familiar again. Alistair seems to be thinking the same thing, though he looks almost alarmed. "Maker's breath," he says, "they also fell in with a half-Orlesian bard. And some of the stories say Maric loved her."

Both of us glance for a moment at Leliana, who just waves back.

"Except she was," Alistair continues, "well, an assassin. And an elf."

We do not look at Zevran. He doesn't dare. "Go on," I say, trying to make him concentrate.

"There were conflicting reports about that part, from what I could tell. Some people said she betrayed them. Some said Loghain betrayed her. Some said Loghain did a lot of things. Poisoned the King's mind, they said sometimes. Gave him his cruelty. Made him marry. In very hushed voices, you know. I never believed a word of it, until," his eyes open again, "until right this very moment, really. I've always trusted him."

I prod him along. "And how did they win?"

"Well they assassinated the arch-mage who had commanded the efforts against them, and after the tide turned they forced the Usurper Meghren into a duel."

I had been hoping for something we could use, there. "I don't think we can force the Archdemon into a duel," I mutter.

"No, true, I expect he'll insist on safety in numbers, the Archdemon. Clever bugger. Loghain might not be so easy to sneak up on, either."

It occurs to me that it might be easier to reverse those tactics. Backstab the dragon and force the man?

"I'm not sure I see you assassinating people, anyway," Alistair says. There is no meaning to the words. No implication. Just thinking out loud.

I mutter, thinking about it.

"I mean, you're not a murderer are you?"

I think back over my list of victims, excluding the Darkspawn – shems in the forest, bandits, soldiers, commoners with too much wine and fear in them – trying to work out if any of those deaths were murder, exactly. "I am a Grey Warden," I tell him.

"Ri-i-i-ight. How exactly did that happen, anyway? I've never asked for the details."

No you haven't. We don't talk about me. I'm not important. I give him the short version. "It is the duty of my clan. The Wardens call, we answer. It is right."

Alistair just asks, "Have you _considered_ a career in the Qunari vanguard? It sounds like you'd really fit in." I acknowledge the joke as meekly as I can. Bob my head around. He laughs.

"Is something bothering you? Or..." he sounds a bit sad, slightly pathetic, "am I bothering you? Should I not have brought up that business about my father? Wait, I thought _I_ was the one who got upset by that?"

"Bad dreams," I tell him. It's not true. I can cope with those now. It bothers me that he apparently cannot. I have seen him waking up, slowly and trembling. Not like a King. Or a saviour. Barely like a Grey Warden, from what I hear. He gives me a sympathetic look, as though to share my pain. I almost want to slap it.

"Is that, well, something that bothers you?" he asks, misunderstanding my look. "The joining? I know the Dalish are descended from immortals."

I can guess what he's getting at. I say, "Yes, since I left the forest I've seen a lot more death than I'm used to," and leave it there. Tamlen. Duncan. Cailan. Everyone.

"And now you're sort of doomed to a short life, aren't you? Shorter than anyone's. That's a bit, you know. Ironic." I scan his face, trying to guess if he genuinely thinks this hasn't occurred to me before now. "Oh aye!" he says suddenly. By everything sacred, he's trying to do a bloody Dalish accent. "Oh yer a shemlen now, so y'are!"

I'm still trying to get a read on his expression here. He looks, well, ordinary. Humour isn't really a mask for him, is it? He doesn't contort his features when he's doing one of his jokes, he doesn't lighten his voice. On the contrary, he has to drop it an octave and try to make himself frown whenever something forces him to be serious. When someone dies or Duncan's name is mentioned. He looks like a child being forced to recite history by his hahren.

He apologises but he's still smiling. Still waiting for a response. I tell him, "We're all short-lived now," and think for a second about expanding my point. I feel like I should. Not too long ago, being called a shem would have made me spit. But it doesn't matter now, the old grudge. The darkspawn are the enemy now. We're all waiting to die. Alistair and I have the same borders to protect.

"Everything I do now, I do for Ferelden," I put in. "Do not question my–" I don't finish. I'm thinking about something else. About enemies encroaching on my border, and their friends coming back to drive us all off. About disappointed elders I'll never see again. And then battlefields. Brothers and betrayals.

"Your... grumpiness?" Alistair suggests. "No I certainly shan't question that."

Before I knew he was a Prince, before I knew how necessary he was, I considered abandoning him. I want to tell him that. I won't. He's a friend now. Somehow.

A friend.

I'm not Morrigan. I don't sit over in the corner and make do. And I'm not Sten. I don't just follow orders; I care about the people I'm saving. I'm here by the fire, with the King.

And I'm not Alistair either. I'm his second. His protector. The one with the brains.

I would have abandoned him in the middle of a fight if I thought it would save this land. It is not mine. It is not the humans'. But this man and I will fight side by side until every piece of Darkspawn filth has left it.

I look at him. His healthy, rotund, glowing, fair, pale, unblemished King's face blinks a bit and his shiny chestpiece just sits there on the grass, waiting to get up and march. Always three steps behind me.

I have tried to harden him. A little bit of me has rubbed off on him, I know that. I hope it will be enough. I hate to do it, but he has to change.

Crusading with Alistair is nothing like hunting with Tamlen. I have to be the dirty one here. I have to do the killing. Take the lead.

He will become a King eventually, no matter who I have to kill in front of him. I will see him break if I have to, see him in real pain. See him pick himself up.

I'll make him do it.

And we'll not be driven from this land.


	2. The Commander

Dragon Age: The Trouble With Heroes' Journeys

* * *

**The Commander**

* * *

We are stood here breathing and sweating in our armour, talking to a darkspawn emissary. Justice is watching, through a corpse's eyes, and wearing Dumat's armour. Watching all this and frowning impatiently at me as though this were easy. Plain, empty features. No sweat on his skin.

Kill it, he says.

Kill it? It is a hurlock that talks. It performs experiments. It wears clothes for aesthetics. If I let it go free it might cure the taint. If such a thing can be done. It might take prisoners again. It might sack a keep again. It doesn't know for sure. It's confused. It might _cure_ the _taint_.

It says it doesn't know how it was born with this awareness. Did the Maker put it here?

Justice is impatient. I don't understand him.

I never have. Possessed walking dead are not supposed to join us. They're not supposed to speak. But of course I grew to know him as I would any of my men. He served Amaranthine well, the guards got used to him. I had to keep reminding him to put on a helmet.

He just wants to kill this thing. Kill the monster. It's pathetic. I could slap him. So thoughtless, so simple. Just kill it. He disgraces the griffon shield.

Riding in on griffons would have been wonderful. Riding into a battlefield, saving the desperate army outnumbered on all sides then making the ultimate sacrifice. This quest - my quest - the moment of my life - will end like this. Me in the Deep Roads with an apostate and a thief and a damn fool out for vengeance and I have no idea what to do.

All while my keep burns. This thing sent a messenger to warn me. You want to just kill it? It would be murder! It does not attack us. Whose laws are you following? Justice - he didn't hesitate for a moment. I hate him.

This darkspawn tainted the Old God. It was an accident. It started the Blight. Kill it.

You are a Grey Warden. You came to Ferelden to finish the Blight. Kill it.

I wish Ser Mhairi were here. Now there was a true Grey.

It talks. What does this 'Mother' of theirs look like? Human face like this one? Bloodshot eyes like mine? We'll see soon enough, after I decide this.

When I accepted this post, I had ideas about escaping the finery and secrecy of Orlais, and about travelling the land that had seen off an Archdemon in a year. But more than this, I had ideas of slaying dragons, rescuing peasants. Fighting monsters and training young Wardens at the castle. As I built the Keep and grew to know my recruits, these became more than ideas. They all happened. I saw the knight at the villain's gate, demanding justice and a duel. I fenced with the darkspawn in the courtyard while he battled the mage on a balcony.

Kill it.

I did not see the villagers when the fight was won. I forgot it was a dream.

At the Keep, they were building a statue of Mahariel. I do not know how he accomplished what he did.

The men and women I recruited were brave knights who did everything they could. All of them. I will add that to the records before I go.


	3. The Champion

Dragon Age: The Trouble With Heroes' Journeys

* * *

**The Champion**

* * *

"There's been a lot of demand for heroes' journeys since the Blight. That's all nice and easy until people like you come along and start throwing daggers around and demanding the truth. You want to know about the men and women behind the legends. Not as easy as it sounds, Seeker. Once you scratch the surface you realise you have to tweak the story quite a bit if you want your audience to buy it. No one wants to hear about dodgy deals, compromises, ugly origins. The trusted companions who just left, or just died. The loved ones they never made peace with, the battles that didn't work out for anybody and the big decisions that just left everyone pissed off and miserable. The retirement plans. The part where the high dragon kills all the workers you were supposed to be looking out for and _then_ you slay it."

I let him talk. Sometimes if he is allowed to ramble and get upset, his guard slips. Useful information gets through. The dwarf has had a long couple of days. I do not enjoy listening to his account of the Kirkwall affair any more than he enjoyed getting hauled in here to give it.

Two days in a dark, musty room arguing and trying to decrypt his meandering stories. For now, I will let him talk. We are almost finished here and I do not know what my next step will be. He seems as restless as I feel. He normally takes care to emphasise the bravery and the violence. He is going through the motions now.

"People wanted to know all about the Warden for a couple of years. I didn't know the first thing about him, so I made it up and people liked it well enough. When some of the records came out last year and I learned the real story, nobody wanted to know any more. I don't blame them. It was depressing. What was the point of the magic mirror at the beginning? None, really. Is it right, what happened in Orzammar? I don't know. He probably didn't. Why didn't King Alistair want to rule? Search me, pal. Would you? Ordinary guy, I guess. How did the Warden talk him into it? Probably didn't leave him much choice – what do you want from me?"

A little dialogue with himself. Sometimes he gets into these. I normally hurry him along but tonight I am tired. I almost don't want to hear the ending to the Champion's tale. I am aware that Orsino had been a maleficar all along and that Meredith Stannard was lyrium-addled. I know now that Hawke was unaware of this. It is obvious what drove the mage 'Anders' to do what he did. I will hear it all, but I already have enough.

"He didn't learn responsibility from his Grey warden mentor and the wise old mage; he dodged it." Oh, the Warden again. "The prince he died for was never lost, just hiding. Not even hiding, really, just working. And the traitor Loghain was just another King's man who stuck around too long. That's no good. No-one will put silver in your hat for that shit."

The Blight is already half-forgotten in Val Royeux. I hear King Alistair keeps it in Ferelden's consciousness but in the Chantry it is barely a bedtime story anymore.

"Mahariel's replacement in Amaranthine, the Orlesian knight? What was her name?"

"Caron."

He nods. "Right. She slunk back home after a month when she lost the castle and her monster opened his mouth and asked her for help." He screws up his nose. "Lousy."

Now I must interrupt. "I did not ask for your rendition of every tale of the age, Tethras. The Champion."

"I was getting to that. Trying to make a point here, if that's all right with you."

He takes a deep breath and has his little self-satisfied smile. Funny thing, his smile. It is meant for nobody but himself, but he never seems to notice it. I'm the one who has to look at it all day. "See Hawke," he begins anew, calm and pontificating again, "and you can say what you like about him – he did a good job all things considered. He challenged that big guy with the giant horns to a duel and he won, and he won the fair maid's heart too. True, she was the one who started the fight in the first place, and then a bigger one started because of his friend's stupid Deep Roads expedition and his other friend's – his other friends let him down too. And he couldn't stop it all in time, you can say that."

He's trailing off again. I move to open my lips, step forward, glare. But he re-starts himself before I can move.

"Anticlimactic, to say the least. Everything just kinda fell apart. I used to write those trashy romance books before I moved on to adventure. But love affairs always end, usually sooner than you expect and before all the things you wanted had a chance to happen. You know what I mean, right?"

I don't blink.

"Say one thing for Hawke, he was well and truly in love and as far as I know he still is. And he used to get out there and live the stories and have fun, even when they just ended with blood and politics. He put on that pointy armour and got out on the streets to protect the innocent day-in, day-out until there were no more innocent left, honestly. 'Til his city was as empty as his mansion. That all happened. Truth? He was all right. Now he's gone and one day he'll go to the Maker's side with Andraste and King Maric and Ser Aveline and all the rest. If you buy that."

I don't want to hear the rest of this and he doesn't want to tell it.

The smile again. "The really good stories are the ones where the truth never comes out. Did I tell you how Bianca got her name? I don't remember if I told you. Now this _is_ a good one."

"One story left, dwarf. The mage rebellion."

"Rather hear that one, huh. The last straw. All right, fine. I'll try to make it sound good. Parting of friends – I can work with that. There's a crazy part where Orsino turns into a giant demon thingy. That part's not bad. And there's a battle. We'll end on the battle, I think. Would you believe the old slave statues came to life and bowed under Meredith's magic? I took one down with a bolt to the neck, shattered its head."

He catches my eye, as though trying to make me admit something. I just wait. He will finish the story and then he will be released.

Before he does he scratches a hard hair at the corner of his chin, prodding at it and wincing. He shuffles, rubbing his backside against the stone and says, "Let me use your privy before we get into that one." Gives me an awkward sort of look. I jerk my head. There is no need for this, we are all adults.

Maybe when he comes back he will be in a better mood.

The guards watch him. On his way out of the room he calls over, "The Champion's done, Seeker. You go find another."


	4. The One

Dragon Age: The Trouble With Heroes' Journeys

* * *

**The One**

* * *

Well. I never knew I could tell a good story.

I have to stop for a moment and take in the scene of a Grey Warden, the right hand of the Divine and a three-time dragonslaying Qunari laughing at the old favourite 'recruit in his knickers' yarn. How do I keep crossing paths with groups like this? We're also joined by an exiled Magister, a demon made flesh and the Antivan Ambassador to Orlais. Sera is somewhere next door looking for mead.

"I've got one for you." The Inquisitor's voice. Varric flattens his cards and puts a silver down to move the hand along, but his eyes are on Lord Trevelyan. The dwarf is quiet. Has been for a good while, now that I think of it.

We all follow his example. The Herald is going to tell a story? All right.

"It was the night of my Harrowing," he starts. "I was standing in the middle of a room full of templars and senior enchanters."

I feel my eyes widen. I have tales about Harrowings, from Ferelden and from Kirkwall both, but none are funny. Trevelyan seems to notice my look. Ordinary looking chap, for a hero. He never asked for any of this, of course. Just stumbled into it. Can't run away now.

"As the Knight Commander read me the Chant," just a bit of mischief in his voice, "I got the nagging feeling something was missing."

I've seen apprentices panic before their Harrowings. If they cry, they probably aren't going to make it. They forget things a lot, or pretend to. Totems, spellbooks, little things to hold onto for comfort. I never took a moment's pleasure in watching them lie there. Some of them would haunt me, if I ever dared think about those days.

"Of course," the mage says, "I couldn't place exactly what it was that I'd forgotten. I could barely remember how to speak. When they asked me to recite my vow, I mixed up Andraste's name with Ser Aveline's. They gave me a glass of water."

I see Cole squint, not understanding, nervous that he won't fit in. Dorian puts something in to be cheeky. Too much wine. "Not always the hand of destiny we know and love, Your Grace?"

"Very much not," Trevelyan answers, relaxing. "I was a horrible apprentice. I had potential, I suppose, but I hated to cast spells. It took me a year to learn to stop closing my eyes when the glowing began."

Some polite laughter across the room. I know the type of apprentice he means, though it's hard to picture him this way after reading his report from Adamant.

He continues, reverential but deliberate, in command. "I knew a girl, a bit older than me, who was made Tranquil. Nothing unusual in that. Every mage could say the same. But I was terrified of her then, and that just made me, well, terrified of everything. So I didn't like spells. I found I could forget myself if I got lost in a book. And I just read. I had to catch up with a lot once I was made a full mage."

"You were more of a scholar, then?" Cassandra, concerned. She hadn't been expecting to hear this.

"I favoured anything but education, actually. I looked for adventure books. You know, swords and..."

The Iron Bull grins and very quietly offers the word 'Shields?', which makes certain people around the table try very hard not to laugh.

Trevelyan buries the moment. "A Circle library tends to focus on magic, Maker and history. I'd watch the loans and new arrivals closely for any of the latter and look for the parts with the derring-do. I'd been reading and re-reading an account of the Rebel Queen's last stand the night before my Harrowing. Well, the week before. Every time I thought about it."

"Hero stuff?" Varric this time.

"Right. It was all I knew. I could barely muster enough magic to light a lamp. I could have passed any test on Calenhad or the Blights, but–"

He seems to be meandering a bit with the story. When it comes to my hand, I throw away a spare card and prod him. "What did you forget? At your Harrowing?"

"Oh, yes! Sorry." For a second he's a mage, apologising to the Templar watching over him. I recoil, start to apologise myself. "Yes," he says, accidentally cutting me off. "My shoes."

Blackwall laughs again. I almost do myself. This is a new one. "Your what?"

"Shoes, socks, the lot. I had spent the night curled up in the dorm in just my robe. Of course I couldn't _sleep_ – not that night. So, since I hadn't been asleep, I hadn't woken up. And since I hadn't woken up, I hadn't done my morning routine."

I'm having trouble understanding this. "Did the knights notice?"

"Yes, but only once I was horizontal, by which time the summoning ritual was halfway done. I must have been well and truly in the Fade when they noticed."

The table has been waiting for Josephine to lay a card down for a while now, but no-one seems to mind. She's wrapped up in the story, perhaps curious about the magic. She asks what his experience in the Fade was like.

The mage smiles quite widely now. "I was surrounded by floating spires. Spirits' attempts to recreate our tower, but the perspective was wrong. It just made me feel even more lost. In the dream, my body tried to be sick, but it couldn't be. I was cold."

The story is making me a little sickly, in fact. Harrowings were never easy to watch. "And when the demon came?"

"I remember trying not to look at its face. The face it presented, that is. Whatever it might have looked like, it was terrifying. I knew it would try to intimidate me. I imagined a thousand horrors there, felt them pressing down on the back of my head while I waited for it to speak."

"Barbaric ritual," Dorian suggests, his face making it clear he's trying to get a rise out of someone rather than make a point. "At least in the North we don't actively _summon_ the bloody demons and goad them into possessing us!"

Cassandra ignores it, as I knew she would. She asks the question on all of our lips, 'What did you do?' My guess is that he remembered the Rebel Queen. Or her son Maric. Some legend, who then gave him the strength to banish the creature from his mind.

The Inquisitor chuckles, stumbling on his words. "I looked down and saw my feet, bare – I'd guess there was a draft in the chamber. I was very aware of them all of a sudden. _That's why I'm so cold_, I thought. The demon was talking, of course, looking into my mind to tempt me. I honestly wasn't attending to a word."

"And?"

"And I threw my head up and demanded to know what the demon had done with my shoes. It didn't answer – for which I can't blame it – so I just lunged. _This is my Harrowing! I'll look like an idiot! Give them back! Give me back my fucking shoes!_" He pauses, looks at the confused glances. "I was disoriented. This was the first deep sleep I'd had in days. And I really wanted the demon to give me back my shoes."

Varric says, "We got that part". There are nods.

"So I was just whacking it and kicking it, which of course was the Fade's representation of the struggle with the demon's will, but my body didn't know that. It wasn't a demon to me anymore, it was a thief. I honestly hadn't heard a word it had said to me." The cards have stopped entirely.

"I think I remember the demon turning away from me and fleeing. Probably thought I was mad or stupid and just lost interest in the whole affair. In the Fade, I leaped after it, flying through the air, powerful and quick like a rabbit. I woke up when I fell of the table. Found myself kicking the Knight Commander's shins, still swearing at him and trying to untie his laces."

Josephine shakes her head, refusing to accept that something so delightful might be real. Cole asks the Inquisitor if he ever found his shoes.

"They were in my dorm," Trevelyan says, beaming. "I was taken there immediately, all but dragged there by the templars. I was told that night," he goes on, winding down, "that the First Enchanter and Knight Commander had eventually decided that my Harrowing was technically a success, but that they would both be watching me very closely. They did, and for a week I was brought to the top of the tower for questioning about the incident every evening. After that," he smiles proudly, letting the story settle for a moment before he ends it, "they put me in the Ostwick Circle history book – which the First Enchanter kept under lock and key – and never spoke of it again."

One by one, the faces at the table show their approval. Varric is happy, for the first time in a while. Josephine adores the scandal of it. The more drunk among us just laugh. I dip into my glass – still my first of the night – to hide my smile, and end up emptying it.

While the giggling and congratulating dies down, I leave the table for a moment to carry in another round of drinks. The last of the reds and that silly brandy no-one had wanted to open before the ice was broken. I slip that between my elbow and chest. It's nice not to have anyone waiting on us.

Nice to have a moment. I hum as I make my back to my seat next to the dwarf.

I'm feeling lucky. Lucky and, for some reason, bold. Like the recruit with his smalls wedged up in his arse, saluting the hall. Like the idiot with bare feet. Like all the silly buggers around the table here.

If the campfire tales are done for the night, I almost mumble, then perhaps we can return to Wicked Grace. The next round's mine. Josephine's collected winnings soon will be, too, I think. I saw one of Ms. Montilyet's tells last time. The right side of her mouth. She doesn't know how high it twitches up when she's onto something.

I'll show them all right.

* * *

There's the briefest of moments, between my pressing my skin into the table edge and the air whooshing down onto my lap, when I'm just proud and nothing else.

It occurs to me that I haven't thought about lyrium since dinner.

I stand right up.

And then I see the Qunari's good eye still pointed at me.

The comfort of stillness leaving me as I make for the door. The hallway. The hot tingling in my cheeks. Maker's breath.

I'll survive.

But I will never play cards again.


End file.
